Sioux Dawn: The Fetterman Massacre, 1866 (The Plainsmen Series)

by Terry C. Johnston

“We got some Cheyenne at the gate.”

  “What day is it?”

  “Why—it’s the twenty-first. December.”

  “No, day of the week, son.”

  “Friday.” He waited while Bridger dallied in tucking his woolen undershirt into his breeches. “Two Moons’s the leader.”

  “He’s the one come through here on his way north few weeks back,” Bridger said as he tugged on the first boot. “Wanted to go hunting up on the Tongue.”

  “That’s what he claimed,” Wands answered impatiently.

  “Bet ol’ Two Moons’s hunting something else.”

  “How’s that, sir?”

  He leveled his blue eyes at the lieutenant. “I figure Two Moons is hunting soldiers this morning.”

  “How could he be hunting——”

  “Red Cloud got his ol’ friend Two Moons to get inside the fort.” Bridger yanked his second boot on then swept his old blue army coat off the bed. “Where’s the colonel?”

  “He wants you to talk to Two Moons first … at the gate,” Wands said. “Before he’ll let the Cheyennes into the fort.”

  Bridger smiled. “You pay attention to the colonel, son.” He knew well enough that Wands didn’t stand on Carrington’s side in any of this. “The man’s growed pretty smart since he come to the mountains. Heap smarter than the whole lot of his goddanged officer staff.” Wands headed for the door. “Paper-collar soldiers fighting rebs down South … don’t know a goddanged peedoodle ’bout fighting Injuns. Nary a one!”

  Overhead the sky hung the color of skimmed milk. The sun flung against it no brighter nor no warmer than a pewter button. As he and Wands walked across the parade to headquarters, Jim saw most of the snow from yesterday had already disappeared, though icy, white collars still clung to the lee side of ridges and down in the coulees. The air felt cold and dry, stinging a man’s face if he didn’t watch out. Down in the valley, both creeks lay frozen from bank to bank, bubbling and tumbling beneath winter sheets of translucent ice.

  “Morning, Jim!” Carrington waved to a chair by the sheet-iron stove where the old scout would be warmer. “Coffee?”

  “Don’t mind a’tall, Colonel.”

  “Mr. Wands. Three coffees, please.”

  “Three?”

  “You’ll join us, won’t you, Lieutenant?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “Before I let Two Moons in, want to talk with you first.”

  “You done the right thing, Colonel.”

  He smiled briefly. “Had a good teacher in Jim Bridger. Something here doesn’t feel right.”

  “Listen to your innards, Colonel. Two Moons’s a cagey one. I’d trust Black Horse with my wife and children. That Two Moons—I’d not trust him with another man’s dead skunk in a burlap sack.”

  “Exactly why I want you with me. For some reason, he and his cronies are back at our gates.”

  “Begging again, Colonel,” Wands offered as he set coffee before the two men.

  “Mr. Wands remembers Two Moons’s last visit.”

  “I heard some of your hotbloods almost rubbed out the bunch of ’em.”

  “Saved us all a lot of trouble if they had!” Wands said.

  “Lieutenant, if you please?” Carrington gestured for his adjutant to take a seat. “Tell me what your intuition says, Jim.”

  Bridger sipped at the scalding potion Wands had served. “That sawed-off runt of a two-timing, back-stabbing sonuvabitch will require some watching. But,” and Jim replaced his frown with a grin, “let’s give the ol’ boy a real show of it.”

  “Now you’re talking!” Carrington agreed and slapped a knee. “A real dog and pony of it!”

  “That’s the idea, Colonel!” Bridger grinned even wider.

  “Dog … and pony?” Wands asked.

  “Shut your mouth and pay attention, Lieutenant,” Carrington said as he rose. “You’re liable to learn a thing or two this morning from Mr. Bridger. Now, Mr. Wands—if you’ll go to the gate and have the sergeant of the guard escort our Cheyenne guests to my office.”

  * * *

  “Sad in a way, Colonel,” Bridger admitted later, after he had been palavering with Two Moons for half an hour. “Just as I figured. This big-mouthed runt don’t have the stomach to stand up to Red Cloud’s bunch like Black Horse. Two Moons’s riding a Sioux pony for sure.”

  “Riding a Sioux pony?”

  “Way of speaking, Colonel. Two Moons’s no better’n a Lakota now.”

  Carrington wagged his head, watching the Cheyenne chiefs’ eyes studying him and Bridger. “I was afraid of that. All right—let’s tell Two Moons what he really wants to know, Jim.”

  Bridger grinned like a coyote about to pounce on snowshoe. “Be purely pleased.” He turned to Two Moons and the chiefs who had spread blankets across the floor near the stove, where they could warm themselves during the council with the pony soldier chief.

  “Two Moons,” Bridger began, “take word back to Red Cloud and his warriors that they’ll never steal into this fort.”

  Two Moons played his best look of shock. “Big Throat Bridger does not speak straight of Two Moons. I am Cheyenne. Not Sioux!” He ran a finger across his throat to sign the Lakota.

  Bridger smiled. “Big Throat knows where you’ve camped the last two moons. On the headwaters of the Tongue, where you smoked with Red Cloud.” He did not wait while Two Moons chattered angrily, but flung his hand in the air, telling the chief to shut his mouth.

  “You are as much a fool as the Sioux if you plan to attack this fort. The soldiers’ hearts are big. Your warrior friends will lose the fight if you attack the fort—and there’ll be much crying in your villages.”

  Two Moons rocked back. “Big Throat tells a mighty story!” he sneered.

  “Colonel, think it’s ’bout time to show these red cutthroats.”

  “Show them our fort?” Wands squeaked, lunging forward at the old scout in disbelief. “You can’t show the red bastards our defenses … our, our powder magazine——”

  “Relax, boy,” Bridger replied, wagging a gnarled hand in the air. “If your soldiers out there doing their job, we got no worry of any one of these red niggers sneaking on the post and blowing up your precious powder-magazine.”

  Simply put, with the state of siege that had now existed for the better part of six months around Fort Phil Kearny, no soldier ever gave a second thought to the question of infiltrators creeping past the stockade walls. Every copper-skinned guest to the post was under constant, vigilant watch. And just such a tour as the one Bridger gave Two Moons had to go far convincing the hostiles they had not a ghost of a chance getting past the outer pickets, much less slipping by the sentries who surrounded the soldiers’ powder magazine. Besides, if any snake-skinned warrior had gotten that far into Carrington’s post, he would have to contend with the multiple locks securing the huge door of forged iron and rough-hewn timbers.

  Carrington cleared his throat. “You want us to show this Cheyenne … everything?”

  “Right,” Jim answered. “Better showing. No use telling a goddamned mule-headed Injun … show the bastard what we want him to take back to them Sioux hiding on the ridges off yonder.”

  Once outside the office to begin their tour, Carrington stared a moment at the sky.

  “Mr. Wands—appears good weather will hold for the day. Release the wood train for its first run to the Pinery.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Bridger watched Wands leave. “You want your wagons heading down to the Pine Woods, Colonel?”

  Carrington looked startled momentarily. “Why, do you sense trouble?”

  “Probably nothing,” Bridger grumped, volving a painful shoulder. “Feel something in my bones. Maybe just a storm a’coming.”

  Carrington smiled. “The way I see it, our wood train’s safe for today at least. Why, if the Sioux send Two Moons to look over our fort, they’ll wait until he leaves before trying anything, won’t they, Jim?”

  Bridg
er gazed at the colonel a moment before answering. “I rarely give a Injun the benefit of the doubt, Colonel. Just hope … better pray you’re right.”

  Chapter 32

  Carrington’s tour hadn’t taken long. He showed the Cheyenne the powder magazine and all the stores laid in by the soldiers. Even showed the chiefs a “gun that shoots twice,” one of those dreaded mountain howitzers firing canister shot. To top it off, the colonel had a troop of men perform their close-order drill for the visitors.

  The soldiers were ready, Bridger reminded Two Moons’s delegation as he escorted them to the main gate. These soldiers were ready for any attack on the fort Red Cloud might plan.

  The colonel returned to his office, spending the next hour readying his papers so that his month-end report to General Cooke might nearly be complete by the New Year.

  “Indians!”

  Carrington jerked up, hearing boots thumping the porch outside his window. From the door he saw that the children on the parade had stopped playing their blind-man’s bluff and stood stock-still, pointing at Pilot Hill.

  He wheeled. Damn their red souls anyway!

  Atop Pilot Hill waved the picket’s flag. Down to the side and up. To the side and up. Many Indians … wood train under attack.

  “Bugler!”

  “Here, Colonel!” Metzger came running, his bugle clanging against his knitting kit, itself rattling with ammunition as he buckled the pistol belt round his waist.

  “Boots and Saddles, bugler! Blow, by god!”

  Carrington boiled with sudden anger. Caught lowering his guard. Believing the Sioux wouldn’t attack a wood train the same day the Cheyenne visited. He ripped his watch from a pocket. Just before eleven.

  “Colonel Carrington!”

  He rushed to the bottom of those steps leading to the watchtower, cocking his head up the ladder. “What is it?”

  “Two Injuns, sir!” the sentry shouted down, pointing. “They just come down the slope of Lodge Trail, big as life itself … crawled off their ponies t’other side of the Big Piney.”

  “What’re they doing, Private?”

  “N-Nothing, sir! Just sitting there. Wrapped up in their blankets. Just sitting. And watching.”

  “Watching what, soldier?”

  “Us, sir. Watching us.”

  “Colonel?”

  He wheeled. “Captain Powell! You’ll ride to the relief of the wood train as you did two days ago.”

  “Your orders stand?”

  “As they did then—do not take your troops over Lodge Trail Ridge.”

  Powell smiled weakly. “I found out for myself. You don’t have to convince me——”

  “Colonel Carrington!”

  He turned at the shrill voice. “Fetterman?”

  “I demand to lead this relief!” Fetterman stomped to a halt at Carrington’s boot-toes.

  “On what grounds——”

  “I’m senior to Powell here,” he snapped. “Besides, my Company A is ready to march as we speak.”

  Carrington looked over Fetterman’s shoulder. Soldiers stood at parade rest in front of their company barracks.

  Carrington sighed. “Powell accounted well for himself on the nineteenth——”

  “I won’t waste time lallygagging with you here, repeating chapter, verse, and section … if you catch my drift,” Fetterman snapped. “I’m senior field officer of the Eighteenth. By god, I’ll not have you snatch this from me!”

  Carrington glanced at Powell with an apology in his eyes. He watched Powell sag, a look of relief loosening his features. Powell doesn’t want to go anyway, he thought as he turned back to Fetterman.

  “Very well, Captain. You’ll have command of the entire relief party. Move out at once with your Company A … and a detachment of cavalry——”

  “Where’re they?” Fetterman barked.

  “You move out with your infantry and the cavalry at once,” Carrington fumed. “I’ll see Lieutenant Grummond is dispatched with his mounted infantry. They’ll catch up with you, Captain.”

  “Hopefully before we reach the wood train.”

  “In plenty of time to drive the warriors off.”

  “There’ll be no cat and mouse today, I’ll have you know.” Fetterman turned on his heel to shout back. “It’s a fine day to get our licks in at last!”

  “Halt, Captain Fetterman!” Carrington shouted, jarred by the flamboyant boast, suddenly remembering he hadn’t issued specific orders.

  Fetterman whirled, fuming. His hands clenching, barely containing his excitement. “What now, goddammit!”

  “Captain, you’ll support the wood train,” the colonel began. “Relieve the wood train and report back to me.”

  Fetterman’s bragging—the way he struts. He wants my chair! Gaining that promotion by beating the Sioux at any cost.

  “Do not engage or pursue the hostiles at the expense of the wood train, Captain! Under no circumstances are you to pursue the Indians over the ridge … Lodge Trail Ridge.”

  “Is that all?”

  He couldn’t believe Fetterman had answered with that question. “Do you understand your orders?”

  “That’s all there is, Colonel?”

  “Yes, Captain. That’s all.”

  Fetterman saluted, turned and dashed across the grassy parade, waving. Sergeants barked orders along the columns as the foot soldiers right-faced, lit out for the south gate.

  “Colonel?”

  He turned to stare into the red face of young Lieutenant Wands.

  “Request permission to join Fetterman, sir.”

  Carrington glanced at Fetterman marching along officers’ quarters, nearing the south gate. He wheeled back on Wands. “Request denied, mister. You’ll stay with me——”

  “But, sir!”

  “I need you with me, Lieutenant! You can damn well see that!” Henry sensed the first fissures fracturing his little world, beginning to widen. I’ll hold on, he thought. Everything will quiet soon enough.

  “As you wish.” Wands turned to go.

  “Lieutenant.” Carrington put a hand out to stop his adjutant. “Catch Fetterman at the gate. Be certain you repeat my orders.”

  “Y-Your orders?”

  “Make sure he understands he’s to relieve the wood train … and not pursue the Indians over Lodge Trail Ridge.”

  Wands wheeled without saluting, tearing across the frozen parade, puffing steamy clouds as he ran. It doesn’t matter him not saluting me, Carrington brooded.

  He glanced at his watch. Eleven-fifteen. Get your men moving, Fetterman!

  Carrington whirled at the sounds of shouting, hoping to find the lieutenant in sight. Where the devil is Grummond?

  Across the parade the colonel watched Wands stop Fetterman in front of the Grummond house, next door to Carrington’s home. The captain leaned off his horse, appeared to be listening to what Wands had to say. Then Fetterman rared back for a moment before he presented his hand to the adjutant. They shook. Wands stepped back. Fetterman waved his foot-soldiers and the twenty-seven cavalry forward at once. Accompanied from the stockade by a spotted dog.

  To Henry’s left arose the shouts and clatter of the mounted infantry, scrambling from the cavalry yard, Grummond in the lead. He halted his detail before Carrington.

  “Lieutenant, you understand your orders?”

  “Report to Captain Fetterman. Relieve the wood train. We’re not to pursue over the ridge.”

  “Remember the lessons of the sixth, Lieutenant. Report to Fetterman. Obey his orders, and never leave his side.”

  Carrington didn’t wait for a response but turned on his heel and strode quickly down the line of mounted infantry. Inspecting rifles. Here and there he found a man with a faulty weapon or one who hadn’t reported in complete light-marching order. He dropped those few from the ranks.

  “Colonel Carrington—request permission to join the relief party, sir!”

  He whirled, ready to bite another head off. He sighed instead, recognizing the
trusted old veteran, Pvt. Thomas Maddeon before him, fully dressed and armed. “Your weapon in good repair?”

  “Positively, Colonel! And itching for some action, sir. For months you’ve kept me busy so I couldn’t get a lick in on them red bastards, sir. Excusing the language.”

  “It’s all right, Maddeon. Permission granted. You’ll take your personal mount?”

  “Aye, I will.”

  “Fall in with the rest of H Company. You’ll ride with Lieutenant Grummond.”

  Henry glanced at Pilot Hill. The flag waved to the left again and again. Big party of Indians on the wood road. Big party——

  “Colonel, I’ve asked Jimmy if he’d let me ride Calico.”

  Carrington turned, finding Fred Brown riding up on the spotted pony Brown himself had given the colonel’s son better than a year before.

  “Why you, Fred?” He already knew.

  “Like I told you last night—not that much time left here. Job’s done. Paperwork’s all in line. They want me at Laramie before the new year. By damn, I’m eager for one more chance at these savages, Colonel! Something tells me today’s my day! I’ll bring back Red Cloud’s scalp myself and throw it on your desk before the falling of the sun!”

  Carrington glanced down at the little pinto beneath Brown. “Just … remember the pony. The boys love him so——”

  “Nothing’ll happen to him!” He tapped heels and whirled the pony past the waiting soldiers. “What glory mantles our shoulders when God’s work we do!”

  “Colonel Carrington,” Grummond called out. “Two civilians will be accompanying me.”

  Carrington glanced at the eager volunteers, recognizing faces but not remembering names.

  “You are?”

  “Issac Fisher,” the first answered, tapping the barrel of his Henry repeater against his hat brim.

  “James Wheatley.”

  “Your wife runs the mess down by the stockade,” the colonel answered. “You look suitably well-armed.”

  “Better’n your poor boys with them muzzle-loading Springfields.”

  “Your repeaters might come in handy at that. Take them with you, Lieutenant.”

  Wands trotted back across the frozen parade, skidding beside Grummond’s horse. “George,” he cried out breathlessly, his eyes flaring with apprehension. “I had no idea you’d go too!”